


Before Game Rituals

by BlueSimba



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dorks in Love, F/M, Gen, M/M, Originally Posted on deviantART, Romance, Volleyball Dorks & Nerds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimba/pseuds/BlueSimba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Various!Haikyuu!! x Reader]<br/>A practice to calm down their nerves before a game. It just so happens to involve you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Iwaizumi

Iwaizumi is a man of tradition.

When he first started playing volleyball, he heard about all of the odd practices that would ensue before matches to calm down players; they would dive across a spectrum, ranging from being typical to downright weird. He remembers thinking they were redundant—passing them off as unnecessary. He wouldn’t outright say foolish, yet he wouldn’t deny it if it ever glossed across his mind.

But now he’s stuck in this position. 

The gymnasium is bursting with sounds—rippling with energy from shoes squeaking against polished floors and subdued chatter. Conversations (from the stands and the players) mix together into an incomprehensible cocktail. It slithers across his tongue, lingering with an undesirable sour flavor. There’s a haze around the court, replicating a formidable aura, and the blitzing lights darken their shadows, scattering ominous intent.

Though, he’s used to all of this. Every detail’s carefully ingrained into his routine, his experiences. He can recite every aspect, no matter how minimal, in his sleep.

He’s not accustomed to the strife in his head, however. It crescendos, easily overpowering all other thoughts with a dynamic fortissimo. Both sides contend in his head aggressively.

Iwaizumi’s fighting with himself over whether or not he should indulge in his before game ritual.  
A grunt of disapproval sounds from him.  
He shouldn’t focus on that. If anything, he should be hitting, head-butting, beating up, or hurting Oikawa somehow. Something to distract him, anything!

Iwaizumi’s eyes scan across the court, carefully assessing the rival team. Each face is studied, and while he might not be the best a theorizing, he draws several theories, preparing for numerous techniques.

_Fortississimo._

Concentration is sapped; faces on the other side cloud, looking the same as the last. The strife in his head morphs into an all-out brawl—dictating his thoughts.

Minutes until the game starts count down.  
He realizes he has five, and that’s just enough time. His squeaking shoes meld into the festival of noise. Intense eyes roam the first few stands closest to the court, and he locates you easily, picking out your distinctive features from the myriad of other faces.

There’s a quick gesture—something most wouldn’t perceive, but you do, used to it in all of its rapid glory. Iwaizumi’s ushering for you to come down briefly. He crosses his arms over his chest, fabric rustling as he does so, in attempt to hide the very existence of the action. A cotton candy blush dusts across his cheeks, face burning more so when he hears your footsteps.

You’re in front of him.

_Decrescendo._

“So, uh, do that thing you normally do,” he says, scratching the back of his ear. The action echoes with nervousness.  
A grin sails over your lips, and he can’t help but marvel as your features radiate elation. Awestruck? He thinks so, but he’ll never tell anyone.

Pleasant warmth envelops him; he hesitantly—and gauchely—returns it.

It’s fleeting. He’s not able to relish in it as long as he’d like before it’s gone. “Do your best!” Your voice is faint, but it propels his drive nevertheless. A feathery touch pecks against his cheek, igniting overwhelming sensation. A rush of exuberance.

Moments pass before he realizes that your lips had just been there.  
He’s not able to chastise you for the peck because you’re already back up in the stands.

Iwaizumi walks back to the court, nerves quelled and satisfied for now.  
To others, his ritual might not even be considered one.

It’s rooted in his system, however.

And it sticks.

_Pianissimo._


	2. Bokuto

“Come on! Come on!”  


Bokuto is eccentric by nature, it’s not hard to decipher. As such, his ever elaborate (you can find another word to replace it, but he continuously insists on elaborate or ingenious) ploys reflect that easily. They’re often thought of on a whim and not given much detail or thought. As his lover, you’re accustomed to his antics, knowing how to deal with them successfully without causing too much harm to anyone in the process.  


Bokuto’s schemes by themselves aren’t bad—easily reversible if anything goes wrong, which is almost a certainty. But throw Kuroo into the mix? Things go from doable to _shit-I-can’t-believe-you-just-did-that._ He didn’t get his nickname, “the scheming captain”, from a minor incident; Kuroo’s acts and suggestions don’t have a fleeting impact, either. They endure time a bit too well.  


In fact, you’re currently experiencing the impacts from one of his suggestions. It’s probably lasted the longest out of all of them—going on two years now.

Bokuto’s molten irises stare into your own. They’re a gorgeous shade, dripping with sincerity that pools, swirling with child-like innocence. They tackle you like a child deprived of attention (isn’t that the definition of your lover, though?), effortlessly making your solidified position waver. You look away—determined not to give into the pleading look he’s passing you.  


His face contorts with somber. It throws a wrench into your heart, twisting it with only an emotion he could make you feel to this extent.  
How skilled is he to manipulate your emotions like this? Talented to the point where he likely doesn’t realize it. A genius, a natural.

“You know I don’t want to, it’s so embarrassing!”  


A dejected sigh floats past his lips before he pleads. He laces his fingers together, and shakes his hands, his bottom lip curled.  
_“Please!_ I swear it’ll be the last time!”  


The tone he’s using. Oh, the tone he’s using. It echoes with request—no, the absolute _need_ for this—dealing significant damage to your position. Your stance fluctuates, crumbling before the feelings rushing throughout your body, oppressing any stubbornness that lingers.

Your fingers glide through your hair, tresses flooding over your digits.  
You reduce before him, succumbing to his side.  
“Fine, fine. But this is the last time, okay?”  
Bokuto nods vigorously, a smile lighting his features.  
“Yeah, you’re the greatest!”  
He doesn’t seem to heed the last part of your sentence, because he’s already rushing off to the compartment by his bed.

His feet stampede against the flooring, elation radiating from every step. He doesn’t need to announce his presence when he comes back. It’s proclaimed by his augmented, larger-than-life aura.  
You face him again, eyes immediately falling to the objects in his hands.

When concerning rituals that take place before games, there are normal ones, and weird ones.  
Then, there’s Bokuto’s. Out of all the stories you’ve heard, his practice takes the cake.  


In his hands are two owl hats, specifically modeled after the horned owl he so closely resembles; they’re complete with feathers, signature patterns, everything down to insignificant details. You’re not even sure where he would’ve gotten them in the first place—they’re too intricate, which leads you to believe he had them custom made.  
Bokuto shoves yours toward you a little too enthusiastically. It accidentally collides with your stomach, knocking the air out of your lungs. You arch, eyes wide open, and breath stolen from you.  


Before you can chastise him, you catch sight of his current attire. Your vexation liquefies, draining at the sight of the owl hat perched on his head, and tied beneath his chin for good measure. You shake your head, tresses mingling with the air as you do so, and begin to affix your own hat to your head.

A newfound warmth trickles down your head, caressing your hair as Bokuto would often do.  
“One,” Bokuto starts to rifle off, voice executing a crescendo with every second passing.  
“Two.” Bokuto balls his hands, and squats down. Before you can mirror his actions, he’s already frantically gesturing to you, urging you to comply with him before he reaches the last number.  
“Three! Hoot, hoot!” he shouts (no doubt loud enough for the neighbors to hear), and excitedly jumps up and down. The magnitude is enough to spur miniature earthquakes, you’re sure. You follow in suit, watching the jubilant expression surface on his face, making it shine and mesmerize—just like fireworks.  
The perfect term to describe your wonderfully mischievous companion.

You’re both fully aware that this isn’t going to be the last time his ritual’s conducted.  
You’re strangely okay with that.


	3. Nishinoya

Gym doors open, protesting with a screech of the hinges. Actions halt, and opponents dissect a row of ravenous crows. Taut, fixed air from the gym grapples with the whispering wind from the outside—wrestling together to conjure a gauche mix, which somehow, players desire. A fortified wall of athletes stares back, challenging their adversary’s gaze.

The doors force them into sets, condensing to the point where they look like an actual flock of crows. Eyes fierce, concentration brimming, and ears yearning for the whistle to blow in their favor. The first trio moves in unison, as if it was rehearsed—victory on their minds. Mouths salivate at the thought of playing—to touch the ball for a few mere seconds. Anticipation accumulates as the rising crows file in the gymnasium. Black wings ruffle, ready to feast on a thrilling game.

In those few seconds, when flesh meets the ball, there’s a window of opportunity, something they’ll never stop reaching for.

Black jerseys take the court. 

Squeaking shoes, and actions from the other team resume. Eyes glide over the crows, taking note of marked players, including the silent orange jersey in the back. 

Nishinoya squeezes your hand. His calloused palms—the very antithesis to his personality—compress against your own, rubbing sluggishly. The action isn’t a need for reassurance, or a sign of building fear. He’s not like that. Nishinoya’s a skilled athlete, improving his renowned skills at an accelerating rate. Teams observe him carefully, calculating what resides in his arsenal.

After all, there’s nothing more fearsome than someone willing to learn. 

You both move in simultaneously, but before you can trek to the stands, he stops you. Nishinoya unwinds his hand from yours, and faces you, bodies centimeters from each other; his warmth glosses over your exposed skin. It ignites receptors while setting your visage aflame, as he always manages to do. 

Nishinoya leans in, but makes no move to plant a kiss on your lips. His head slithers next to your ear, warm breaths caressing your ear shell, effectively commanding all of your attention (as if he didn’t before). Your skin almost ripples as lethargic moments pass—echoing with silence. Your heart drums rapidly, waiting for his predictable move. It’s always like this, what he does before games. 

Then, he speaks. 

It’s an incoherent whisper, lost to the rambunctiousness of the gym. Familiar syllables roll through your ear, weaving a whimsical path—teasing you as they glide. They’re not able to be interpreted—perhaps that’s part of the allure—derived from his very own language, one he constructed as a child. 

Despite the lack of interpretation, there’s no mistaking the passion that gushes over his words. It washes over, rising and falling with every turn of his lips. 

_Phonetically beautiful._

There’s nothing quite as heartwarming when he exchanges this familiar phrase. He’s letting you experience an entire language he crafted at a tender age; Nishinoya’s wearing his heart on his sleeve for you, allowing you access to the core of his pulsating heart. 

Nishinoya pulls away, not too quickly to rustle you out of the enchanting haze, but with enough speed to take in your reaction—something he’s always cherished. 

_How wonderfully intimate._

He’d marvel all day if he could, however, the silent countdown ticks. 

He grins, instantly attracting your eyes.

“Thanks! _Yuu_ really helped me out again!” His voice is boisterous, easily contrasting to the subtle whispers. Nishinoya enunciates one word in particular, but before you can fully comprehend the situation, he’s already running off, the sound of his shoes melding into harmony with the other players.

His eyes meet your own one last time.

Judging by his personality and attitude before games, that wasn’t a normal phrase.

It’s a pun. He used his own name as a pun.

However cheesy he might be, there’s no mistaking the fire in his eyes.

They erupt.


End file.
